The night sky wept ash instead of stars.
Somewhere deep beneath the western ruins of the capital, metal groaned. Ancient pipes leaked steam into the air like ghostly sighs. The underground catacombs—long sealed, forgotten by even the most studious nobles—now trembled with motion.
The silence didn't last.
It broke with the first scream.
A sharp, garbled sound that didn't sound human.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Inside a forgotten facility, old containment tanks shattered like glass under pressure. Power cables were torn free. Monitors blinked red. Sirens wailed like the final breath of a dying god.
And in the center of it all stood a figure.
No name.
No designation.
Only a number, burned into the floor beneath the fluid-drenched feet of the awakening:
0.
He didn't open his eyes.
But every corpse around him—researchers, soldiers, failed clones—told the story.
Subject Zero was awake.
And he was hungry.
⸻
Elsewhere—Midnight
The city trembled.
Explosions bloomed like crimson flowers near the outer wall of the noble district. Fire danced across the rooftops. Alarm bells rang across the capital's upper rings as royal guards scrambled to form barricades.
Unit IX had returned.
But this time, they weren't hunting quietly.
They were purging.
And at the center of the chaos stood a girl with hair like snow.
Princess Avalith.
Cornered. Blood on her hands—not her own, but her guards'. She'd watched them fall like cut flowers.
A dozen masked figures circled her.
Uniforms black. Swords crackling with aura. Masks etched with the mark: IX.
"We don't need her dead," one of them said.
"But broken is fine."
Princess Avalith didn't flinch.
Her blade gleamed in the hellish glow of the burning trees. Her white hair danced behind her, stained with smoke and blood. Her breathing was steady. Her gaze—calm.
But even she knew this wasn't a fight she could win.
Not against them.
Not alone.
She stood surrounded by six Unit IX operatives—each one enhanced, each one leaking bloodlust like open wounds. Their masks were cold and blank, with that same haunting crimson 'IX' scratched across their faces.
She had already killed two.
they were the strongest top elite.
Her grip tightened around the hilt of her sword.
"I will not fall," she said, voice soft as silk yet laced with steel. "Not to dogs who hide their names behind numbers."
The tallest among them chuckled. "Big talk for a girl with a fractured rib."
Another one shifted beside him, ready to strike.
"She's stalling."
"Then let's end it."
The six surged forward as one.
Avalith moved faster.
She blinked from one spot to another—slicing through shadow, blade shimmering with raw aura. Her movements were sharp, precise, royal.
One operative lunged—she ducked beneath his swing and cut through his leg with a flash of steel.
Another came from behind—she twisted, parried, then sent her boot into his throat.
But she was slowing.
Even with her unnatural strength.
Even with her bloodline gifts.
They were overwhelming her, wearing her down with numbers and perfect formation. She had been raised in court and trained for war—but this… this was slaughter masked as tactics.
Still, she raised her sword again.
Prepared to die standing.
Then—
Something changed.
A sound sliced through the firelight.
Not footsteps.
Wind.
But wrong.
Distorted.
Bending.
The Unit IX soldiers froze mid-motion.
One turned his head sharply. "Who—"
His body folded inward before the sentence ended.
Not cut.
Crushed.
His limbs twisted into a grotesque knot, his mask shattering as his bones collapsed in on themselves like paper.
Avalith's eyes widened.
The others stepped back in formation, blades and aura snapping to attention.
"He's here—"
A figure dropped into the battlefield without a sound.
Cloaked in black.
Face hidden behind a smooth white mask—no markings, no holes, no expression. Just silence.
The masked figure stood completely still.
Unmoving.
Unbothered.
Unreal.
One of the operatives didn't hesitate.
He hurled a spear of condensed aura directly at the stranger.
It never reached.
The masked figure didn't raise a hand. Didn't dodge. Just looked at the incoming attack.
It unraveled midair.
As if it never existed.
That was when fear set in.
"…Is that him?" one whispered.
"No way. He's not supposed to be alive."
The masked figure stepped forward.
No words.
No sound.
One blink later—and the battlefield was painted in red.
Two more operatives died before they knew they were being attacked. One's head twisted backward with a snap, the other exploded into a mess of flesh and metal as unseen pressure crushed his core.
Avalith stood, stunned.
She'd fought generals.
Killed beasts of the abyss.
But she'd never seen someone move like this.
Or not move at all.
Because he wasn't fighting like a man.
He was executing.
⸻
Only one Unit IX soldier remained now—the strongest among them.
He backed up, eyes darting between the princess and the masked figure.
"Damn it," he hissed. "Where's the handler?"
He didn't have to wait long.
Because he arrived.
The butler.
The real threat.
He emerged from the blackened tree line in the same pristine black suit as before. White gloves. Silver eyes. His aura hit the battlefield like a hurricane dipped in poison.
Avalith nearly fell to one knee.
Not from injury.
From pressure.
The masked figure didn't react.
The butler glanced once at the corpses, then at the masked stranger.
"You," he said.
"You've improved."
No response.
Avalith stepped back. Her hands trembled. She hated herself for it, but something about the man in the suit—he didn't just feel powerful.
He felt wrong.
Like the world bent to accommodate him.
"Who the hell are these people…" she breathed.
The butler turned to her.
"Royal blood," he said. "A pity."
He appeared before her in an instant.
Hand raised.
Ready to kill.
BOOM.
His strike never landed.
The masked figure intercepted—no, redirected it—with a flick of his wrist. The butler was pushed back two steps, his polished shoes scraping across stone.
That alone shocked him.
"You really want to protect this one?" the butler asked.
Still, no answer.
Just that cold stare behind the mask.
"She's a threat."
"She's a pawn," the masked figure finally said, voice distorted, low and echoed like multiple layers of thought stacked together.
"Nothing more."
"Then why save her?"
A pause.
"Because I may still need her."
Avalith blinked.
That voice…
It wasn't unfamiliar.
But it wasn't familiar either.
Whoever he was—he didn't save her because he cared.
He did it because she had value.
And somehow, that frightened her more than the people trying to kill her.
The butler smiled thinly. "So it's true. You are still playing the long game."
"I always was."
Then came the clash.
Masked figure versus the butler.
The ground cracked beneath them. Trees disintegrated from the force of their blows. Aura roared like an animal, but the masked figure kept moving with inhuman calm—redirecting, dismantling, countering.
It wasn't clear who was stronger.
But one thing was clear:
The butler was holding back.
Avalith stared.
And for the first time…
She felt small.
Not weak.
Not powerless.
Just insignificant.
⸻
The butler vanished into the shadows after taking a calculated blow to the ribs. Not a retreat. A delay.
But the message had been sent.
The masked figure turned to leave without a word.
Avalith called after him.
"Who are you?"
He paused.
The masked figure turned his head slightly toward her—just enough for his voice to reach.
Distorted. Cold.
Measured.
"You don't get to ask that"
Avalith's breath caught.
But before she could speak—
He vanished.
No trace. No sound.
Only the lingering impression of something monstrous…
that chose to wear a human shape.
The air where he stood shimmered, then dissolved—leaving no trace. No aura. No warmth. Nothing.
Just silence.
⸻
Later that night – Somewhere deep underground
A cluster of Unit IX operatives sat around a large circular table.
Monitors flickered. Reports were being filed.
"The masked figure is definitely Subject One," one said. "No question."
A gruff voice across the table scoffed. "That was him? He's stronger than before. His technique—it's evolved."
"But he was wearing a mask."
"Exactly," the voice said. "He's hiding his return. Hiding his intentions."
Another figure spoke.
"He saved the princess. Should we inform the royal family?"
"No," said the handler. "That wasn't mercy. That was strategy."
"What's he planning?"
The room fell silent.
Then one older man, face scarred, whispered:
"He's setting the board."